SYMBIOSIS: SWAG IS A TWO-WAY STREET
PARTY GIRL
Melissa wasn’t planning to have a bachelorette party. But I was not letting her transcend to marriage without one. The only problem was, I was broke. I literally had $1.89 in the bank! I couldn’t afford to throw her the kind of event she deserved—complete with erotic dance teacher on hand to show her the kind of moves that would make her husband hot. So I did what any resourceful person would do: I figured out a way to get the entire party for free.
The thing about getting comped is that in order to pull it off, you always have to give something back in return. In my case, I had one very valuable offering: press. If I could find a way to write about the escapade, which I wanted to develop into a piece about women embracing the ancient art form of the striptease, I was certain people would happily lend me their services.
My first order of business was to find the right space, a cool looking boîte that wouldn’t require additional decor preparations. I had written about Isla, a funky Nuevo Cuban restaurant on a quaint block in the West Village, a few times. And I loved the owner, a fashionable woman named Diane Ghioto who was once the fashion editor of Elle magazine. Her place, a sexy powder blue-and-white den reminiscent of a 1950s pool cabana, is the perfect spot to play. When I contacted Diane and explained that I wanted to throw Mel a fabulous soiree, she instantly piped in, “Do it at my restaurant.”
“But we can’t pay anything,” I said sheepishly. “And we were hoping to find a place where we could get food and drinks for, well, free.” I added, “Not a lot of food or drinks. There will only be fifteen of us,” to cushion the blow.
“Okay, do it here,” she said. I was surprised how easy my plight was becoming. “I love having you in the restaurant,” she continued. “You’re our little famous friend! We read your Marie Claire article! We love Melissa, too! We’ll feed you!”
Like a true celeb, I was getting comped just for being me. I revealed my plans to bring in an erotic dance teacher, and Diane went crazy for it. Apparently the evening of Mel’s party was also Isla’s debut weekly gay party. “What boys won’t love to learn how to strip with you?” she squealed, before planning a tangy menu of mojitos, empañadas, grilled shrimp skewers, and yucca fries. “We’ll make a whole press event out of it,” she said excitedly. Three things down, one to go. Next, I needed to find a stripping instructor.
At the time, there was a lot of talk of the trend of women learning how to pole-dance. Apparently Kate Moss was into it. Pamela Anderson had a pole at home. Two of my friends actually got a pole installed and hosted pole-dancing parties at their boutique. It was the latest thing from LA to London. I researched the Internet and came across Sky London, a saucy fifty-four-year-old former stripper, who hosts a naughty show on a public access cable station and also teaches classes in becoming a goddess, giving oral sex, and dancing seductively. Due to my excellent reporting skills, I found her phone number. I knew I had called the right person when I heard a breathy voice purr on her answering machine, “Hi. This is the heaven of Sky London. My words of wisdom for the day are: after three martinis, it’s okay to do someone in the bathroom of a restaurant, but don’t go home and give yourself a haircut!”
Sky and I got along, for lack of a better word, famously, on the phone. She—and her crass, bold opinions and tell-it-like-it-is attitude—seemed so cool that I wanted her at the party, even as a guest. When I told her what I was doing, she wanted in on the action, especially because the night would expose her to hundreds of new people who could possibly drum up business for her. By giving me her services, she would be giving herself access to new clients. It was a win-win situation. Barter at its finest.
The second she walked into the restaurant, one of Mel’s gay friends screeched, “Sky London in the house!” Apparently Sky has a big following in the gay community. (Who knew?) The night was out of control! We all learned arousing ways to remove opera-length gloves, how to “dip it” (meaning: our butts) while squatting to the beat of a pop song, and how to slither on the floor like true sluts! We were taught how to flutter our tongues, give ourselves proper spankings, and do all sorts of wicked things with faux pearl necklaces. We forced Mel, who’s normally shy, to practice her moves in front of the entire restaurant. Sky egged her on and called out moves: “Hands in the hair. Hump the air!” Two hours later, Mel whispered, “I think I’m going to have an excellent honeymoon!” After watching her shake her booty, I was sure she would, too.
BACK SCRATCHING
DO UNTO OTHERS AND THEY WILL DO BACK UNTO YOU
• Say yes to all favors. Payback time is always around the corner.
• Help a new storeowner, restaurateur, artist, massage therapist, or anyone who has a service or product that you want. Get local press coverage for this person in exchange for bounty (refer to schmoozing to refresh your memory).
• Don’t have medical insurance? Throw a party for the best (or better yet, newest) doctor in town. Get it catered—for free or at a hugely discounted rate, by promising the restaurant or chef that your party will bring him or her huge exposure. Convince the doctor to bestow free treatments to bring in new clients. Call a local paper and get them to cover this “hot new trend” and—voilà!—you’re in swag city, sweetheart. There’s nothing like a free MD!
• Invite an expert over to teach you and your glamorous friends a lesson—flower arranging, vintage shopping, reconstructing their own clothes, baking. By introducing someone who has something to sell, you’ll be thanked with free stuff.
• Offer to host other people’s parties and events for important organizations. By hosting, you, the famous one, will bring great cachet to the event. You will have to guarantee a certain amount of people will attend, so rope in your fab entourage, publicist(s), and new journalist friends. Make sure your generosity will be rewarded in cash or—more important—in kind.
• Call marketing and media or public relations departments of liquor companies and ask them to sponsor your birthday party. By putting them on the invitation, you’re giving them ample opportunity to promote their brand to “imagemakers, tastemakers, and trendsetters” such as yourself. There’s no such thing as tacky when you’re in haute pursuit.
• Switch careers. Become a journalist. People send them free stuff all the time, just so they can write about it. We’ve gotten free hair products, moisturizers, makeup, shoes, yoga mats, CDs, denim jackets, cashmere sweaters, watches, handbags, perfume, and—ahem!—even vibrators. (Regift whatever you don’t want and you’ll never have to stress about holiday shopping again.)
• Blackmail. If nothing else works, get dirt on luxury purveyors and haunt them with it. Who wants cash when you can get cashmere?
FREE STUFF—IT AIN’T SO FREE, AFTER ALL
LAND OF THE FREE?
Yes there’s always a catch. The hidden cost of free stuff is something we learned the hard way. Take the day we got everything for free, but ended up paying through the nose anyway. To celebrate the publication of our article, we had lined up a “free day of fun.” Hair salons, restaurants, and beauty spas were clamoring for our business, inviting us to try their services as the newest “famous” girls in town. We were excited, especially since, as irresponsible shopaholics, Karen and I usually had very little in our bank accounts to pay for necessities such as haircuts and food. (We lived on cheap takeout and splurged on designer shoes.)
We started the day at Just Calm Down Spa, a cute day spa in the Flatiron District, where we were given the full celebrity treatment: manicures, pedicures, facials, and Swedish massages. “Everything is complimentary.” The receptionist beamed. “But I do need twenty percent gratuity for the staff.” Final cost: $110. We arrived at the Prive salon, a chic downtown hair palace that caters to clients like Drew Barrymore, for our complimentary hair booking. We were cut and glossed, highlighted and styled, by Laurent DuFourg’s excellent team of Ludovich (color), and Elena and Vanessa (haircuts). They even threw in makeup by their talented make
up artist, Maureen, and were nice enough to give Tanya, our photographer friend who was with us, a blowout as well. We kissed, thanked, and tipped everyone. Final cost for ten tips at $20 each: $200. We were only halfway through the day and already we had spent more than $150 each!
Dinner that night was provided gratis at Man Ray, a super-trendy restaurant owned by Sean Penn, Johnny Depp, John Malkovich, and Harvey Weinstein (one of the brothers behind Miramax Films). Naomi Campbell had just thrown a party for her new venture there, and it was also the spot for Saturday Night Live’s season premiere bash, where Matt Damon, Bruce Springsteen, and Jimmy Fallon hobnobbed in the restaurant’s posh lounge. Our reservation was for four, but we were quickly joined by five more people whom we bumped into at the restaurant (famous people have a habit of “collecting” others as nights progress). We were seated at the best table. We spotted Barry Diller nearby. And we feasted on roasted sea bass, oysters, and tuna and octopus sashimi, and drank copious bottles of wine. At the end of the evening, a waiter handed us a leather book. I froze, thinking, Oh, no! They don’t know it’s supposed to be free! But we breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the large comp stamp on our $850 bill. We tipped a little over 25 percent, which brought the final cost to $215!
So our day of “free stuff” actually cost us $500! We barely had enough in our respective checking accounts to pay for all the tips. It brought us more into debt. But we wouldn’t have missed it for the world! (Burp!)
THE TIPPING POINT
KNOW HOW TO HANDLE THE COMPED LIFE WITH GRACE
• Find out how much the free service, whether it’s a car and driver, meal, massage, haircut, or makeup application, would have cost if you were a civilian who had to pay—and leave 20 percent (when something is free, skimping on the tip is frowned upon).
• Leave $1 to $2 per drink at parties at nightclubs and restaurants where there’s an open bar. (You don’t need to leave a tip at someone’s private home, club, or wedding.)
• If you borrowed clothes, shoes, or accessories, send the lender a thank-you note and a thoughtful gift—an art book, candles, beauty products, journal, or something apropos from your “swag closet.”
• If someone gives you a fat gift (i.e., hotel stay, vacation, cruise, tickets to a performance), you must thank them by sending a little token of your appreciation, parallel to the level of what you received. Play tickets get a thank-you note and a phone call—but a two-week trip to Aspen calls for a grand bouquet and a special bottle of wine (or your firstborn—whatever’s available, really).
FREE STUFF BACKLASH—OUCH, IT HURTS!
NO, WE DID NOT TAKE THE FIRST-AID KIT
I thought I had it down. I was a pro at maneuvering the gravy train. During my two weeks of fame, I ate my way (for free) through some of the best restaurants in town. By convincing publicists and restaurateurs that I was a “famous” novelist, doors opened and culinary opportunities were given to me that I could never afford on my own. Who knew you could fake stardom? Mike and I ate our way through some of the best restaurants in town: City Crab, Steak Frites, Porto Tuscana, Chango, Chicama, First, Cucina, Savannah Steak, and many others. The red carpet was rolled out everywhere we went, and it was gratifying to order $60 steak on the menu knowing that someone else was footing the bill. At City Crab, the manager had to give us an extra table for all the food we had ordered. We looked upon the diners who made do with measly plates of one or two crabs with pity and smugness.
What a difference celebrity makes! When I was reviewing restaurants for a small local paper (that could not afford to pay for my receipts) I used to shiver whenever the check arrived, fearing they’d forget I was having a complimentary “press meal.” More than once I was presented with the astronomical bill at the end of a fabulous meal—and they only let us leave once the publicist personally vouched for us. “Fear and Dining,” Mike called it.
The free clothes and the free meals begat bigger things. Suddenly I was fielding invitations for free hotels and free trips to luxury resorts! I thought I had hit the big time! Mike and I packed our bags and spent a heavenly weekend in a five-star resort in Arizona, where we were esconsced in the triplex penthouse suite. We spent every night ordering five-course dinners from the four-star restaurant in the lobby (much better to eat it by candlelight and a view of the desert!). It was relaxing and invigorating—we each had massages at the in-home spa, and availed ourselves of the minibar treats.
“Did you enjoy your stay?” the desk receptionist asked as we checked out.
“It was wonderful!”
“Great!” he said, and handed us a bill documenting each of our activities: the restaurant bills, the spa bills, the long-distance phone calls. I had forgotten how ambiguous accepting things for free could be.
“But I thought this was free,” I argued, my heart sinking. They didn’t even bother to take our credit card imprint when we checked in! We spent a good fifteen minutes battling with the desk clerk, his manager, the publicist of the hotel, and the publicist in New York who had invited us on the trip. We left the hotel in triumph—without paying a penny.
But the minute I returned to the city, the publicist in New York berated me for our behavior. “They said you guys stole everything from the room and even took the first-aid kit!” The charges they levied at us were ridiculous, and in the end, I just had to laugh it off as a casualty of “fame” and the delicate art of swag. Never look a gift horse in the mouth. The next time I accept a “free” trip, I’ll make sure I know exactly how much it’s going to cost me.
TROUBLE-FREE?
It’s easy to look smashing when you’re famous. Stars have personal chefs, a throng of trainers, yogis who travel with them, and personal assistants who make sure that their bosses get the right carb-free, high-protein meals while on film sets. Having a hot body comes with the fame territory. Sadly, I have always had issues with my frame (my nickname growing up was, unfortunately, Bagel because of my love handles!). If I only had smaller thighs … If I only had slimmer hips … If I only had slinkier arms. That’s why I’m constantly trying to write stories about trainers, fitness, nutritionists—anything that will bring me to someone who’s capable of solving all my figure woes and giving me the kind of limbs I can insure for $1 million. (Many of the Hollywood set have done that, you know.)
After my two-week mission, I had managed to work my way into so many restaurants (and one chartered yacht in the Caribbean) without having to pay for it (one place, Domicile, a groovy hot spot in Greenwich Village, owned by the guy who was once engaged to model Molly Sims, stayed open for me on Easter Sunday, when they were supposed to be closed, so I could host a small dinner party for twelve people) that all of my pants were getting snug.
Even worse, I had just received a hot gift—sexy, low-slung Juicy Couture jeans (waist size twenty-seven!)—that I could not squeeze into. And there was no way I was even going to try to put on the teeny-weeny Imitation of Christ top and $2,500 (size petite) hand-painted, one-of-a-kind vintage jacket from Language that I had received as “congrats, you’re famous” gifts. After Radu kicked my butt to Timbuktu, I managed to convince an editor to let me do a “before and after” story and work my ass off with another trainer for three months to lose my bulk and find my inner “vampire-slayer body.”
I showed up to this trainer’s gym three mornings a week and jumped rope for twenty minutes, did thousands of jumping jacks, and channeled Jane Fonda until I could feel the burn no more. After two weeks I lost a total of ten inches. I was on a roll … until I injured my scapula, the muscle by the shoulder blade, so badly that I couldn’t turn my head. It wasn’t the trainer’s fault. I had exacerbated a previous injury, but the result was: no working out. I had to stop the program and kill my story.
Well, let me tell you. This trainer was not pleased.
He began stalking me with nagging messages about the feature story I promised him. He told me I’d have to pay him back for the thousands of dollars of free services. He said he’d ruin my
name. He said very mean things, including that he hopes I gain the inches back! Never once did he ask if I was okay, mind you. His calls became the bane of my existence. My e-mail account was full of nasty, threatening messages. “You promised a feature,” he’d say, “and if I don’t get one, there will be repercussions.” I explained that I was in no shape to continue the workouts and that I was certainly in no shape to be in an “after” picture. I told him that once I healed, I’d do the story. But he was relentless with his pursuit. He wanted payback and he wanted it now!
In the beginning I planned to remedy the situation by referring to him in other stories I was working on. (In fact, I did mention him in a large feature in a fitness magazine, but that wasn’t good enough.) When his publicist told me he called me the C-word (!!!), I stopped answering his calls, returning his e-mails, and trying to get him featured in any kind of story. His harassment didn’t stop for weeks. In one letter, he actually promised to sue me. I was freaking out, I must admit. I hate letting people down, but in this situation there was nothing I could do. My editor assured me that he didn’t have a leg to stand on. But that didn’t ease my anxiety. The only solace I found was in cupcakes with buttercream icing.
I bumped into the trainer weeks later. And while we shook hands and made peace, he found the time to inform me that I looked like I found the ten inches I worked so hard to lose. That bastard! And I currently have no body insurance to speak of.
WHAT NOT TO DO
• Don’t start freeloading and asking for too much. Greed is one of the seven deadly sins for a reason.
How to Become Famous in Two Weeks or Less Page 20